þǣm mūðum dēofla
by Neko-chan -Silvered Tongue
Summary: Never trust a devil's mouth.


_Title:_ þǣm mūðum dēofla

_Author:_ Neko-chan

_Fandom:_ Kuroshitsuji

_Rating:_ T

_Pairing:_ Sebastian/Ciel

_Summary:_ Never trust a devil's mouth.

_Author's Note:_ This comes from a _lot_ of late-night phone conversations that I've had with mhikaru. Thus, as with most of my Kuro stuff, this ficlet is for her. Written for the "love confessions" Thursday Crack Ficlet challenge over at BlackButler(dot)net. The piece is relatively brief; I mostly just wanted to touch on an observation that I've discussed with the BFF. The title is Old English for "the mouths of devils" or "the devils' mouths," depending on how you want to translate it—though my professor would say that the translation is more appropriate for the former. –shakes fist at his nitpicking-

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**þǣm mūðum dēofla**

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"As long as the contract continues, obeying his orders is my duty as a butler."

. . .

Ciel knew never to trust a devil's mouth.

The lips would quirk upwards in a sardonic smile, parting after a moment of silence to speak words that the young contractor knew to be lies: reassurances as to his loyalty, the dedication of his aesthetics, the pleasure that he took in seeing the boy's enemies defeated. All of these were lies, and Ciel knew this because he knew never to trust a devil's mouth. After all, a demon's favorite pastime was to find the loopholes within the words, manipulating meanings in such a way as to leave Shakespeare green with envy.

Words lie, demon's lie, the devil's mouth is only created _to_ lie: it was always better to trap flies with honey than vinegar, and the smooth baritone of his own devil's voice drew his prey closer still, eyes rapt upon an enigmatic smile as their worlds fell apart and their souls were dragged into Hell. It was always, always easier to catch flies, corner prey, with honey than vinegar—and Ciel's demon was particularly talented at speaking spun-sugar words.

Ciel knew never to trust a devil's mouth.

Ciel, however, _also_ knew to trust actions more than words.

The aristocratic curve of the devil's mouth would open so that his lips would murmur the ever-diligent "Yes, my lord."—but those words were tokenly given, the expected response of a dedicated servant of the Phantomhive household. Nothing less would have been allowed and thus the lie emerged, silky threads that slipped through the air to bind the prey tighter and tighter yet, binding it in a trap that was inescapable.

Devils lie. Never trust a demon's mouth.

But Ciel _knew_ that actions speak louder than words:

A gleefully spoken, "Yes, my lord."

Lips smiling.

Eyes cat-slitted.

And a raging inferno flaring up, devouring Baron Kelvin's manor as the quiet gasps of already-dead children succumbed to the hellfire. The flames crackled merrily, echoing the demon's sadistic joy at the destruction and loss of life. A fire was meant to lay waste to everything before it, heat flickering almost sweetly before greedily spreading to gorge itself on more and more _and more_. Ciel asked for annihilation, and annihilation was what his demon provided for him.

Yet:

The devil's mouth lied, the demon's lips always and constantly lied with honeyed sweetness, ensuring that the pawns belonging to the king of the marionettes danced to the chess master's wicked tune, gamboling about with awkward limbs, gestures jerky and gangly as the dance slowly began to spin out of control.

Never trust a devil's mouth.

With Ciel hidden beneath his demon's long overcoat, the roar of the fire held at bay with his devil's sinful touch, the contractor knew that though one could never trust a devil's mouth for the words were always untruthful, actions still spoke more than words: Sebastian tightened his hold around the boy's body, keeping him safely tucked to his chest as he slaughtered his contractor's enemies. Hand punching through the Doctor's chest, the demon turned slightly to the side to keep the blood splatter from touching his young master; and though the inferno was brought about by Ciel's own order, he kept the boy hidden beneath the dark coat: blinding his contractor so that Ciel did not have to _see_ the result of his _own_ words. Don't look, don't look—and so Ciel remained beneath the black cloth with Sebastian's scent surrounding him, fingers tight in his demon's shirt as the devil wrought destruction.

And despite remaining half-wild, the blue-eyed falcon in his arms allowed himself to be hooded.

. . .

Never trust a devil's mouth.

A demon swore to take one's soul. But the actions done kept that soul from plunging further into the darkness than was absolutely necessary, hold tight as he guided his contractor, touches constant against the hollow of the boy's throat or the arch of a cheekbone or the delicate wings of his shoulder blades, towards the twilight semblance of an end where words were no longer necessary.

Never, _ever_ trust a devil's mouth.

**End.**


End file.
